Without waiting for a response, she took her standard from Gabriel, turned, and began striding, alone, toward the boulevard.
“Jeanne, wait!” cried the Bastard. But around them, the soldiers were already scrambling to don the few pieces of armor they had permitted themselves to remove in order to eat. There was energy in the air again, almost crackling, like hints of lightning, and Gabriel too put on his gloves and helm and turned to follow the Maid.
It was the golden hour right before twilight, when the sun was low on the horizon and bathed everything as if in the light of God itself, softening the ugliness of the remains of battle. But it could not gentle the boulevard. Dotted with English soldiers, it was still massive, still ominous.
And Joan the Maid stood in front of it.
She had planted her standard, grasping it with one hand. In the other, she held the Sword of Eden. It looked to be catching the sunlight, except the sun had never struck earthly metal with such dazzling brilliance.
“Glasdale!” Joan shouted. Her voice seemed to reverberate inside Gabriel’s chest, and he put his hand to it for a moment. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the image of the young woman, straight as the standard she bore, bright as the sword she lifted. “Glasdale, give in! Give in to the King of Heaven! You, who called me a whore—I have great pity for you and your men’s souls. Yield, or go to God this day!”
There was no jeering this time. The English soldiers stared, shocked. Doubtless, they had thought the Armagnac whore slain by the arrow, but here she was, as if she had never been wounded, asking—practically begging—them to yield.
But it was too late.
A terrible sound rent the evening air: a tremendous explosion mingled with the terrified screams of the injured and the dying. Black smoke and orange flame billowed upward, from behind the boulevard.
Joan whirled, her face brighter than the fire. “The people of Orléans have crossed the bridge to fight with us! Fire burns in Les Tourelles! Follow me!”
She sheathed the sword, planted the standard firmly in the sandy soil of the riverbank, and ran forward. Gabriel shouted with joy and hastened to place a ladder against the wall himself. This time, as the soldiers climbed, they faced no resistance. The English in the boulevard courtyard were too busy trying to stay alive. He cleared the top and slid down to behold absolute chaos.
The drawbridge between Les Tourelles and the boulevard was gone. The moat below was filled with burning debris, splinters of wood, and drowning Englishmen, their heavy armor donned as protection now dooming them. Even so, rather than be burned alive, soldiers were shucking what armor they could and leaping into the water. Those lucky enough to have been in the boulevard courtyard during the explosion found themselves with a wall of fire to their back and a flood of French soldiers slipping over the wall in ever-increasing numbers.
“We surrender!” cried the English in their thick and ugly accents, dropping their weapons and lifting their hands. “We surrender!”
And from the top of the boulevard wall, that wall that had appeared to be so impregnable mere hours earlier, Joan the Maid shouted, “Soldiers of France! This city is ours!”
***
Later, much later, Gabriel and Joan returned to the Boucher house. There, Joan had her injury cleaned and rebandaged in soft linen, and she and her retinue dined on roast beef soaked in wine. Joan’s two heralds feasted alongside her; they had been freed from Les Tourelles, along with many other French prisoners.
Gabriel had learned that while the army was attacking Les Tourelles from the boulevard, the courageous people of Orléans had been laying a primitive walkway of narrow boards and gutter pipe between the broken bridge and the north side of Les Tourelles. Some of the horrified English swore they had seen Saint Michael and a host of angels approaching, but when asked, Joan had casually replied that no, Saint Michael had not made an appearance, though it was certainly clear that God was with them.
It was on Joan’s orders that others had loaded up a fire barge and sent it beneath the drawbridge, where it had exploded into a fiery hell for the English. William Glasdale had been on the drawbridge, and had been among those who had sunk to their deaths, weighted down by their own armor, just as Joan had warned.
While there had been much cheering—Joan herself had crossed into Orléans that night over the makeshift bridge—there was also death, and fire, and the smell of burned bodies, and the screaming of men in torment silenced only by quick deaths by sword or arrow.
Gabriel caught Joan in a moment of somberness similar to his own. She picked at her meal, then, feeling his gaze, looked up at him. Her face, drawn and tired, softened. Even a little of her light came into it.
“War is a cruel thing, even when fought for God,” she said quietly. “My heart is heavy with sorrow for all those who died today. If only they had yielded, but…” Her voice trailed off. “We have won Les Tourelles, but the siege is not yet lifted. We will see what is in store for us on the morrow.
SUNDAY, 8 MAY, 1429
Joan looked like an ordinary girl when she slept.
Her face was neither luminous nor drawn in righteous anger, not laughing, or weeping for the fallen. Just a girl, appearing younger than her seventeen or so years, sleeping.
Yesterday had been a great victory, but it had drained Joan on many levels, and as Gabriel regarded her for a moment, he was loath to wake her. One day, he thought, God will ask no more of you, and you can be this girl again. No Sword of Eden, no standard, no armor or battle cries or blood. Just you.
“Jeanne,” he said, gently, “the English are on the move.”
They had been spotted a few moments ago, seemingly all of them, flowing in marching formation from the various boulevards that were still unassailed by the French.
She awoke instantly, her blue eyes flying open, calm and alert and yet, as always, subtly shocking Gabriel with their pure intensity and rich sapphire hue. Beside her, Fleur murmured and blinked sleepily.
“Where?” Joan demanded. He told her. She called for her squires and she and Gabriel armored up quickly.
Fleur stood by, a helpless expression on her pretty features as she regarded both of them with concern, twisting her fingers. “I am useless,” she murmured. “If only I could face the danger with you!” Then, impulsively, she kissed each one of them on the cheek. “I know God will be with you both,” was all she said.
They crossed the Bridge of Orléans on foot. When they entered the general’s tent on the other side of the Loire, they found the Bastard, La Hire, Gilles de Rais and the others deep in conversation. “What is going on?” Joan demanded.
“Damned if we know,” La Hire said.
“Don’t swear,” Joan said, but almost absently. Her blue eyes were on Dunois.
“They’re lining up to the west,” Dunois said. “It could be they’re planning one massive attack… all of them against all of us.”
Both sides had lost a lot of men over the past two days, Gabriel knew. A single assault would kill hundreds more. And the English just might win.
“It is Sunday,” Joan said. “I say, we will not be the first to attack.”
“What?” exclaimed de Rais. “If we went after them now—”
“No!” snapped Joan. “Bastard—you said they are marching in formation?”
At that moment, one of Dunois’s men poked his head in the tent. “My lord,” he said, “they are here, but they’re not attacking.”
As one, the generals, Joan, and Gabriel rushed out of the tent to see for themselves. The knight had spoken the truth. There they were, close enough to make out individual faces, lining up to face their adversary as more and more soldiers assembled to swell their number.
“Battle formation,” La Hire murmured, and of all of them, La Hire would know it when he saw it.
“Let us greet them in the same way,” Joan said. “Bastard, line the men up. Exactly as the English are. All of us. We will not make the first move, but tell your men this: If we are attacked by
the English on a Sunday, we will fight with God’s blessing. And if the English choose to leave, they may go with the same.”
It was eerie, Gabriel thought, to see so many of the enemy so close, and yet so still. His heart was racing as he mounted up and trotted out to the open field beside Joan. They sat atop their restless horses as the rest of the French army and the Orléanais militia fell in line behind them.
For almost an hour they waited, the only sound the creak of armor and the stamp of horses’ feet. Then one of the English leaders broke formation, easing his horse into a walk and moving forward.
“It’s Talbot,” murmured Dunois, gathering the reins to head out to meet the English commander.
“No, Bastard,” Joan said. “I will go.” She looked at Gabriel and shook her head. Even he was not to accompany her, it would seem. Agonized, he nodded, watching with his heart in his mouth as she rode out alone to meet the near-legendary English general.
Slowly but deliberately, John Talbot unsheathed his sword, but did not lift it. Gabriel could sense the sudden leap in tension among the French soldiers, and the English clattered to active attention. Should their commander order it, they would be ready to charge the French army in one great line.
But oddly, Gabriel was not worried. Instead, he watched as Joan responded in kind—drawing the Sword of Eden. It blazed to brilliant life, its shape obscured by the power of its own aura, almost as if Joan held a little sun. Behind him, he could hear soft exhalations, as the French army released its tension, and he saw the English army shift uneasily. He wondered if Talbot could see Joan, could see how this sword shone for her.
If he did, Talbot resisted for several long minutes. Then, slowly, he nodded, and sheathed his sword. The commander raised his empty hand and kicked his horse, wheeling it roughly about and cantering back to the English line.
They turned, not quite as one but close enough, and began to trudge away from the battlefield.
Joan now turned her horse so that she faced her troops. Her face shone nearly as bright as the sword she still held, still not lifting it for concern some would take it as a signal to attack. She sheathed it and instead took her banner, grasping it as she galloped to and fro before her army, before the Orléans militia, who raised their voices in cheers to God and the Maid of Orléans.
The siege had been going on for almost seven months.
Joan, the Maid, had ended it in ten days.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
ow are you doing? Victoria’s voice sounded so concerned.
Simon didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the façade that everything was fine between them. Fortunately, Victoria seemed to think it was Animus-related battle fatigue, and that worked fine for him. “I think I’d like to take a break.”
I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you ask for one.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he said.
It’s lunchtime, would you like to get something to eat? This is a big moment for Joan and Gabriel—and Simon Hathaway.
He forced a chuckle. “I think I’ll just get something and go back to my office for a bit. Streamlining those notes for you, as we discussed.”
She lifted the helmet off. “I think that’s very wise of you, Simon,” she said. “Do you have any theories about how Joan is using the sword so far?”
“Not really, not yet,” he said. “We can discuss that later, after I’ve had some time to focus.”
Victoria helped him unfasten the bindings and smiled a little as she did so. “I feel a little bit like I’m your squire, getting you in and out of your Animus armor.”
“You’re getting very good at it, I must say, though I haven’t gotten this as bloody as Gabriel has gotten his armor.”
It was meant as a joke, but as soon as the words left his mouth Simon wished them back. He knew how zealous the Templars were in pursuit of what they considered the goals of the Order. He wasn’t sure what the hell he’d done—or was about to do—to warrant the present amount of scrutiny, but if he came down on the wrong side of things, his own bloodshed was a very real possibility.
He thought back to his initiation ritual, about how, well, charming he’d found it; quaint, almost, with its remarkable attention to historic authenticity. He shouldn’t have. It was real, it was an oath, and he wasn’t safely enveloped in his happy bubble of theoretical research.
Simon stepped off the Animus platform and strode toward the display case atop which the open sword box rested. He gazed at it, willing it to give up its secrets.
“Simon?”
“Hm?”
“… you know I’m on your side in this, right?”
He almost broke down and demanded an explanation right then. Almost. Because he really, truly, did want to believe her, but he also really, truly believed Anaya, whom he’d known much longer. All he could hope was that somehow Victoria wasn’t an active part of… whatever was going on.
Nonchalantly, he closed the latches on the box and picked it up. “I’ll take this with me to the office. If I happen across something I might have missed regarding it, I’ll have it right to hand.” He patted the box and started to walk out of the room.
“Simon, I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that,” Victoria said, somewhat worriedly.
He paused and turned to look at her. “Victoria, I’m the head of Historical Research. I’m completely supposed to be doing this. What, did you think I’d head straight to Sotheby’s or the British Museum? I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” He gave her a reassuring smile and a perfectly casual jerk of his head in the direction of the lift.
As he strode into his office, carrying the priceless Sword of Eden as if it was a particularly elaborate box of long-stemmed roses, Simon realized something.
He was done with being afraid.
He, Simon Hathaway, was the child and grand-child of high-ranking Templars. He was a Legacy. He had been a Master Templar for several years before being selected as one of the nine—nine!—members of the elite Inner Sanctum. It was time Simon started acting like it. What good was it to be in the Inner Sanctum if he was going to be spied upon? It was like the line from George Orwell’s Animal Farm: Some animals are more equal than others.
Something about what he was doing had put someone in the Templar Order—perhaps Rikkin, perhaps someone Rikkin answered to—on high alert. It was more than the sword, because Simon had already pledged to do everything he could to render it functional again. It was more than information about the Assassins, because finding out things like the identities of lost Mentors was precisely what he was supposed to be doing.
No. It was something else. Something Rikkin, or whoever he was commanding, or whoever was commanding him, didn’t want him to find out—or did, and wanted to beat Simon to the punch. It was major, and it was dangerous, and Simon was no longer going to be cowed by it.
Let them bug his office, or his car, or Temp’s. Let them track his computer and his phone. Let them swap out actual employees for Templar field agents, or worse. It didn’t matter. Simon had his books, he had his brain, and for the time being at least, he had access to the Animus.
And he was going to make the most of it.
Rikkin stretched out his legs in the back seat of the Rolls, absently watching London zip past as he spoke on the phone with his daughter, Sofia, who was preparing for his arrival in Madrid in a few days. He was interrupted in mid-sentence by the chime that indicated an incoming text. He lifted it from his ear, saw who had sent it, told Sofia, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up.
A smile curved his thin lips as he read Bibeau’s message: O taken. Seen S in action.
“Finally,” he murmured to himself as he texted back, When lost?
Unknown yet.
How soon?
Unknown.
The smile melted away. Get where you can talk, Rikkin texted. He called Sofia back and wrapped up the call. Afterwards, he glanced out the windows as the Phantom hummed do
wn the streets. The sky had started to spit cold, hard drops, but people were still outside. They hunched under what seemed to be regulation black umbrellas, stole smokes under whatever overhang they could find, argued over who had been first in line for the coveted taxis. Nearly every face—male, female, old, young—wore an expression of anger, fear, or cow-like blankness.
“Behold the ‘people,’” Rikkin muttered. These were the wretches the Assassins cared so much for. But these individuals and their petty needs meant nothing to him, and in his opinion should mean nothing to the Templar Order, which had sacrificed and endured so very much for an ideal of humanity that was far nobler than what these pathetic creatures represented.
A muscle in his jaw worked as he tapped on his pad, calling up some information. His dark eyes flickered over what came up, and his lips pressed together in a thoughtful frown.
Well, well, Rikkin thought. We’re going to need to tread very carefully going forward. Very carefully indeed.
His phone chimed: Victoria, sounding the “all clear” to talk. “What the hell,” he said when she answered, pausing briefly between the words to emphasize them, “did you mean by ‘unknown’?”
“Just exactly that. Mr. Hathaway is insistent that we uncover events chronologically,” she replied. “He’s afraid we might not get the whole picture. I’ve only just convinced him not to play out every single simulation from start to finish.”
“Professor Hathaway is not watching a film at the cinema,” he said, his voice a low purr. “Do you really mean to tell me the reason you are not now briefing me on a Sword of Eden is because a stuffed shirt of a historian wants to keep things in order?”
“I did suggest going forward, but the entire premise of his suggested change to the division is—”
“I know what the bloody premise is, he expounded on it quite thoroughly,” Rikkin snapped. He reined himself in. “Doctor,” he said in a gentler tone, “why do you think I asked you to report to me privately?”
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